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stuffed the business suit into the first trash can he passed. Now, with the disguise in place, Sloan felt a good deal more secure. Thenext thing he needed to do was to make contact with his office in D.C. Or, failing that, the embassy in Mexico City. Either one of which would send help.
    For the first time since early that morning Sloan removed his cell phone from a pocket and attempted to make a call. What he got was a recorded announcement.
“Lo sentimos. El servicio telefónico no está disponible en este momento. Por favor, inténtelo de nuevo más tarde.”
(“We’re sorry. Telephone service is not available at this time. Please try again later.”)
    Sloan swore. It seemed safe to assume that the meteor, assuming that was what he’d seen, was responsible for the outage. So he wasn’t going to get any help—not in the short term anyway. What to do? Sloan looked around. There were a lot of people on the street, and sirens could be heard in the distance. None of the other pedestrians was paying any attention to him, and that was good.
    Maybe he should find a second hotel, check in, and hole up. Once cell service was restored, he would call for help. But how sophisticated was the criminal network that ran Tampico? The clothes had been purchased with cash, so there was very little of it left. What would happen if he used a credit card? Would gang members come on the run? And even if they didn’t, would a hotel accept a card they couldn’t verify?
    Sloan concluded that it would be stupid to use a card until he knew the answer to at least some of those questions. He needed a goal though . . . Something to do. Head for the airport? No. The General Francisco Javier Mina International Airport was located at the heart of the city, and planes could normally be seen taking off and landing around the clock, and the ominous-looking sky was empty.
    So what to do? He figured the next step was to find a place to hide, stay there until nightfall, and move under the cover ofdarkness. But in which direction? The obvious answer was north, to the good old US of A. Texas was only three hundred miles away! It felt good to have a plan—even if the details were a bit vague.
    Sloan had passed a number of vacant buildings during his walk. Some were grouped in clusters, and leaning on each other for support, while others stood in splendid isolation. The Hotel Excelsior was one of the latter. He’d passed it earlier, and as Sloan approached the building for the second time, he knew it was the one. Not because it was inherently safer somehow—but because the Excelsior’s faded glory appealed to him. The ten-story hotel had two Mission-style towers and was adorned with rows of high-arched windows, ornamental iron balconies, and peeling white paint. Down on the ground floor, there were two verandahs, one to the left of the main entrance and one to the right. What had once been carefully manicured trees were huge now and surrounded by trash. A sad sight indeed.
    In spite of the plywood nailed across the front door, Sloan felt sure there was a way in. And sure enough . . . As he circled the building, he came to a crude staircase. It consisted of a crate pushed up against an old dumpster. After climbing up onto the top, Sloan was able to step through an empty window into the hotel’s kitchen.
    Everything of value had been stolen by then, so the only things that remained were the enormous stove, a concrete prep table, and lots of trash. Were people living there? That was a distinct possibility, and Sloan knew he was taking a chance. Light filtered in through arched windows as he passed through the dining room, entered the lobby, and spotted the reception desk. The air was thick with the smell of urine. From there, it was a short walk to a marble staircase, which remained elegant, in spite of how filthy it was and the mindless obscenities that had been spray-painted onto its